In Memoriam
by sapphireswimming
Summary: Roy was sick of the hospital, but his premature escape couldn't have come at a worse time.


**A remix of Lost by dannyboymw, who graciously allowed permission for me to rewrite part of his fic for FMA Day.**

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 **In Memoriam**

October 3, 2015

[Never Forget]

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It had been five days since they'd been admitted into the hospital, Mustang limping in with one arm thrown around Hawkeye's shoulder and Havoc rushed in on a stretcher by white coated medics who'd ignored the carnage in the lab basement in favor of trying to save the man moments from death.

Thanks to the doctor's vigilant care, Lieutenant Havoc would pull through, but still had a lengthy stay in the hospital to look forward to.

Mustang, however, was quite recovered, and was already contriving multiple plans of escape.

"You're here," he absently noted with a wave toward Havoc in the bed beside him. "So I can get the Lieutenant to communicate through your daily cigarette deliveries." Mustang limped to the end of the room, turned around, and gripped onto the metal bar of a cart to catch his breath.

Evaluating the blond soldier, mouth hanging open and drool dribbling down onto his blue hospital robe, Mustang paused. "No, you wouldn't remember to check and you'd just end up trying to smoke our messages."

He began hobbling back toward the other side of the room, toward the window that at least afforded him a view of something other than white walls, medical equipment, and his sleeping bunkmate.

"Maybe I'll just hide behind the door, knock the doctor out when he comes to check on you, and make a run for it. Shouldn't be too difficult," he mused as he rested again. Then winced as he realized just how winded the short excursion had made him.

Damn stab wounds and self cauterization.

"…'s just a thought, Colonel, but maybe you should keep your escape plans to yourself, instead of broadcasting them out in the open, where, you know, anyone could hear you," Havoc murmured with a faint grin.

Mustang was too busy scoping out the various nooks and crannies in the room to pay him any heed.

Before he could decide on the best spot from which to lie in wait for the good, unsuspecting doctor, the door opened.

Mustang didn't bother greeting his aide with any niceties. "I'm glad to see you, Lietutenant. Now you have to get me out of here," he pleaded, face as close to desperate as she'd ever seen it.

In response, Hawkeye tossed him a bundle. Mustang caught it and separated the various pieces in surprise. Clothes from his house, but he had no clue how his subordinate could have gotten to them with the key cleverly hidden beneath his door mat.

"Get changed. Meet me in the hallway," she said, all business.

There was no explanation for how she had worked this miracle, only proof that it had been done. But Mustang could return to his normal life once more, escape this claustrophobic room, and it was all thanks to his Lieutenant and her brilliant strategizing. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that the solution could be so simple as walking out the door under the supervision of an armed guard.

A few minutes later, Mustang had joined his subordinate in the hall and they silently moved through the bustle of hospital staff. He bit back the "How?" he wanted so desperately to ask, but he knew it was unnecessary and would have gone unanswered until they were in the clear anyway.

He stayed a step behind her, trying to keep pace but also allowing her to take point and guiding them past all of the potential pitfalls in his escape. The harsh light of the hospital caught her hair, making it shine like gold as it swayed from side to side. Mustang stared at it for a moment too long, blinked himself back to reality when he almost stumbled against an IV drip that had been left in the hallway.

They entered the lobby a few moments later, and Riza spoke for the first time since she'd arrived. "Wait here," she ordered, "I'll get the car."

"Actually," Mustang began, making her turn around again. "I would prefer to walk tonight." She looked at him steadily, eyes narrowing a fraction.

"I've done nothing but sit around all week," he offered in explanation, one shoulder hitching up in a shrug.

For a long time, Hawkeye said nothing. Finally, she sighed.

"Very well. If I drive beside you."

The corner of Mustang's mouth twitched at the provision. "Agreed." It wasn't quite the latitude he'd hoped for, but he would take it. Anything to get out of here, and it was honestly more than he'd been expecting her to grant.

His week in the hospital had also deprived him of time with the Lieutenant. He always felt better, safe, more put together with her at his side. No, this arrangement was better than walking alone.

She left to fetch the car, and decided not to worry the Colonel about news from the wider world until she deposited him safely in his home and let him get a good night's sleep in a mattress that wasn't made of glorified cardboard.

Their progress on the homunculus front, plans for how to proceed with their investigation of the Fuhrer, the reemergence of Scar, the antics of the Elrics… that could all wait until later. Until the next morning, certainly, with the way he barely made it through the hallway without falling over.

She gave it even odds for Mustang collapsing halfway home and asking to climb into the car with her or doggedly staggering on at a snail's pace in some fool headed attempt to preserve his pride. As if he had anything to prove to her or anyone else in this world.

The black car pulled up to the curb and matched the pace Mustang set. She rolled down the window to keep tabs on him more easily, judge his progress by how hard his breathing was.

They'd gone several blocks when she glanced over and informed him that Scar was still at large. Mustang looked over at the thinly veiled attempt to get him in the car.

Smirking, he replied without missing a beat, "He won't dare try anything with you watching my back." And he picked up the pace just to prove that he didn't need to be chauffeured home. The exertion took its toll on him, though, and he started slowing noticeably, his feet dragging at the pull on his burned side.

"What is our next move, Colonel?" she asked a block later, and he threw her a calculating look. She wasn't just talking about tonight. "Now we know the true identity of the Fuhrer, we could approach the generals…" she continued, letting the suggestion trail off.

"We could never hope to convince the military council with what we currently know," he grunted. "Besides," he added grimly as he forced himself to keep walking. "That's assuming that none of them are already in on it."

"Already…?" Riza blinked, startled at the thought that anyone in the military's command structure could possibly allow a homunculus to stay in power if they had known the truth. Then again, two weeks ago, she would have had a hard time believing that the Fuhrer was a homunculus at all.

"I see," she said, turning back to the road.

Mustang cleared his throat and she turned to see him slowly making his way toward the car, a sheepish grin on his face. She slowed, allowing him to catch up to her. Pride didn't win tonight, after all.

Before he made it to the door, however, someone called to him from one of the buildings they had just passed. "Colonel Roy Mustang?" the voice asked, cold and harsh and already sounding sure of its answer.

Mustang and Hawkeye both turned to see a figure emerging from the darkness of the nearest alley. If the tan coat and cross on his pants hadn't given him away, the scar beneath his white hair would have.

Scar.

Mustang moved to snap at the man instinctively, but balked when he remembered that he wasn't wearing gloves and there weren't extras in the pockets of these civilian clothes, even if he still had time to put them on.

"Colonel!" Hawkeye shouted, reaching for a gun with one hand and the passenger door with the other, but already knowing that she was going to be too late this time.

Scar was already too close to the Colonel, his outstretched hand crackling blue.

Mustang threw himself to the ground, tried to roll out of the way, knowing that avoiding contact at all costs was the only way he would get out of this alive. He grunted on impact, the breath knocked out of him and the still only partially healed patch at his side flaring in a flash of bright white at the top of his vision.

Shots rang out from the car above him, but Scar had followed him down the sidewalk and now had the car between him and the desperate sharpshooter.

"Colonel!"

His hand moved closer and Mustang didn't even have time to curse before blue engulfed his vision. The energy fizzled around his head and his last coherent thought before his brain went blank was that he hadn't thought death would feel like this.

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 ***spoiler alert* Mustang is not actually dead.**

 **I may or may not write more of this fic, but for now, if you want to how the rest of the story goes, you'll have to click on the original. ;D**


End file.
